Michael Burch

REDOLENCE

Now darkness ponds upon the violet hills;
cicadas sing, the tall elms gently sway,
and night bends near, a deepening shade of gray;
the bass concerto of a bullfrog fills
what silence there once was; globed searchlights play.
Green hanging plants adorn dark window sills
and droop a bit, awaiting morning's flares;
mosquitoes whine; the solemn moth again
flits by the damp gas lantern and endures
the silence of night's solitary rain.
And now the pact of night is made complete;
the air is fresh and cool, washed of the grime
of the city's ashen breath; and, for a time,
the fragrance of her clings, obscure and sweet.

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